


Blackbird

by ZaliaChimera



Series: The Day After the Apocalypse [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Affection, Angst, Awkwardness, Blood, Crying, Exhaustion, Fear, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Hotels, M/M, Men Crying, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, No Apocalypse, Rebuilding, Recovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sleep, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: The day after the apocalypse, Martin and Jon find freedom.Leaving the Institute is hard, when you've been bound there for so long. But each step takes them towards a future they could never have imagined being a possibility.“This is real, isn’t it?”Martin is silent for a moment, just long enough that Jon feels a tremble run through him, thoughts teetering at the edge of a precipice.





	Blackbird

The door to the Magnus Institute looms ahead of them, and Jon finds himself dragging his feet as they approach it. Martin squeezes his fingers and stops to look back at him. “Jon?”

The sight of the plate glass fills him with a strange kind of dread. “I- I think I left something. In the Archives. I should fetch it.”

That feels like the most natural thing. It feels like what he should do. Retreat to that soft place of safety and horror which has been his prison and his throne for so long. He could slide into the chair in his office, and reach for a statement and for the tape recorder that would be there beneath his fingers and-

Martin’s hand, still a little cooler than it should be, pressed against is cheek, startling him out of his racing thoughts. “Jon, we have everything.

It’s true. Jon knows that it’s true. They’d collected it all up, all of the photos and notes that Jon had saved, his favourite fountain pen, trinkets and gifts from office parties. Memories. They’re all shoved into Jon’s backpack and slung over Martin’s shoulder now.

“I know,” he says, but his gaze is dragged towards the door down to the Archives anyway, the elegant curling letters of the sign as familiar as his own handwriting. “I just- I feel like I should go back down. I need to be here.”

Martin’s eyes narrow, brow furrowing in concern. “We quit, Jon. Put the letters on the desk and everything.”

He remembers writing it, the scratch of his pen forming words that he’d never thought he’d be able to write. It isn’t rational. He knows that. There is no supernatural compulsion. No thread of need binding him to the place. For the first time in years he doesn’t feel like he’s being watched. And yet it feels like if he walks down there, everything will slot into place.

“I know,” Jon repeats. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides. Now that the euphoria of the ritual, of _winning_ is wearing off, he feels hollowed out and exhausted. “But-” 

He has to think, to try to put words to everything that he’s feeling. That’s never been his strong point at the best of times. Martin, to his credit, gives him that time, even though he must be desperate to make it to the doors and out into a London fundamentally changed.

“I- I think I’m scared,” he says after a moment. The words don’t work properly anymore and they feel too light on his tongue, but he forces himself to continue. “What if I was wrong, Martin? What if we go and- and in a few days I start to get… hungry.”

It would be worse somehow to think he was free and be dragged back in, than to never have hoped at all. It isn’t as though there’s any precedent for what he’d done. No ritual had ever got that far before. No-one had ever tried to change things the way he had. Maybe it’s easier if he stays here, in the Archives, and lets things go on as they had.

“Jon,” Martin begins, and then smiles at him. And it’s not the sharp-edged, brittle expression that he’s become so used to seeing from Martin. He looks happy. “Compel me.”

It comes out so suddenly and throws him off guard. He blinks owlishly at Martin. “What?”

“That’s a test, isn’t it? You can’t compel people if you’re human. And if you’re human, we can leave.”

It does make sense. He feels stupid for not thinking of it first but it’s been a long few days. “I can try that.”

Martin nods and squeezes his fingers, and Jon tries to think of a question to ask. God, it’s like thinking through treacle. His thoughts are sluggish and it feels like his head is too full, and emptied out all at once. Finally he latches on to something simple, laughably so.

“How do you like your tea?” He reaches for it, the spark that sits at the back of his throat and curls around his tongue to drag out secrets and sustenance, and he finds… nothing. Saliva and muscle and tendons, anatomy that he could name if he pushed himself, but that’s all. He furrows his brow and looks at Martin. 

“Twelve sugars and apple juice,” Martin says in response, and then snorts in amusement. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

Jon’s stomach swoops and soars and sinks like he’s freefalling, bereft of handholds and support but free and he can’t tell yet what happens when he hits the ground. 

His legs feel weak and he wobbles but Martin is there, and slides an arm around him, and the careful intimacy of the gesture makes him want to cry. His breath shudders in his chest, and he holds it, trying to stave of whatever is coming. If he starts now, whether tears or laughter or screaming, he isn’t going to stop for a while.

“Let’s go, Jon,” Martin says. “Let’s leave here, together.”

That drags a smile from him, strained and weak as it is. “Yes. Let’s go.”

The step towards the door is difficult. He’d never thought before about the weight of his body and the inevitability of gravity in that controlled fall. And then he takes another step. And another, and then Martin pushes open the glass door and Jon follows him, step by step and he’s outside. It’s evening now, and the cool air hits his face. It’s something he’s felt a thousand times before, but it might as well be the first time.

They cross the road and Jon turns to look back at the Institute. It’s still imposing, the white stone and pillars. It fills him with a sort of possessive pride -- his place, his throne -- that wars uncomfortably with the deep relief of being free. He never has to set foot back in there. Never has to cross the marble floor and surround himself with stories and horror.

He isn’t sure that he knows what else to do.

But that’s a thought for later, for a Jon who is less exhausted and less hungry and more human than the scraps of himself that he’s still pulling together. 

He turns his back on it and gives Martin a tired smile and offers his hand. “We’re out.”

Martin’s expression is flat and cold looking at the building, and for a second Jon swears he can see fog coil around him. But then he turns to Jon, and smiles, and it’s gone, and there’s just Martin. 

“Yeah, we are.” 

The walk to the tube station is quiet, Martin’s fingers curled around his. They probably need to talk. So much has happened. They _definitely_ need to talk. But for now they’re both content to walk in silence. 

There are no watching cultists or monsters in the shadows. Maybe they’ve gone to lick their wounds, or taken the chance to escape. Maybe they’re dead. Jon actually isn’t sure. But even the darkness of the encroaching night seems defanged. 

He fumbles his Oyster card out of his pocket when they reach the gates, and even the press of the underground and the tonnes of dirt that he knows are around them doesn’t trigger that twinge of terror. Maybe it will come back tomorrow, but for now he drowses against Martin’s side, head on his shoulder. 

“I stopped taking the tube, you know? After I woke up.”

Martin looks down at him. “No, I didn’t know.”

He doesn’t ask more, when once he would have, but Jon is good at telling when someone wants to ask a question. “Too many people packed in together. Too easy to find someone with a Statement and no escape.” His lips twist into a bitter line. “And after the coffin I didn’t like the thought of so much dirt around me.”

Martin gives a soft hum. “Makes sense. I stopped taking the tube too,” he admits softly, and he sounds very distant. “Stopped doing much of anything honestly. I had to be isolated.”

There’s no inflection in his voice when he speaks, just a terrible flatness. He sounds hollow. Once, a few days ago though it feels like years, Jon would have wanted to push, to drag the story from Martin willing or not. There’s a part of him that still wants to, but it isn’t the same deep hunger that it was. The not-knowing doesn’t gnaw at him in the same way.

He nudges his head against Martin’s shoulder instead, and tightens his grip on his hand until Martin looks at him. “We got out, Martin.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, and the clouds fade from his expression a bit. “We did, didn’t we?”

They change lines a couple of times. Jon doesn’t pay much attention to which trains they catch, just follows Martin along. It’s nice not to have to worry about what might find him, what might be watching. It’s only when they emerge, and Jon sees the brightly lit shape of the Tower of the London that he gives Martin a puzzled look. 

“I thought you lived in Stockwell.”

Martin shrugs. “I do, but I haven’t been to my flat in- it’s been a while. And I just-” He gives a heavy sigh that makes Jon’s chest ache. “I want to go somewhere that isn’t connected to-”

He waves his hand vaguely, but Jon gets the gist of it. Somewhere not connected to the Institute, to their work, to the time spent trapped by worms or the Lonely or the Eye. Somewhere new.

“Alright,” Jon says. “Not as if I have a flat to go back to. My stuff’s still in storage.”

He’d never got around to retrieving it. He should probably do that because he doubts the Institute will keep paying for it indefinitely now that he’s…quit.

It is not difficult to find a hotel in such a touristy area of London. Martin pulls them into the first one they see, some sort of fancy business hotel. A lot nicer than Jon would ever pay for himself, and he knows that Martin have never been extravagant. He grasps Martin’s wrist. “Martin, this is-”

Extravagant. Too much. Too expensive. He doesn’t need luxury.

Martin looks at him and then pulls out his wallet and extracts a credit card. He holds the card out towards Jon. It has a very familiar logo on it, and reads ‘The Magnus Institute’. Jon looks back up at Martin, whose smile is positively wicked.

“Business credit card,” he says. “Peter got me one so I could handle things more easily. I think they can stretch to paying for a hotel for a couple of nights.”

A different Jon, a Jonathan Sims of a few years ago, would have objected. This Jon, the Jonathan Sims of this new world, hurt and broken, but alive and free, laughs and clings to Martin and kisses his forehead. “You’re brilliant.”

He enjoys the way that Martin flushes, and lets himself be pushed towards one of the sofas in the lobby while Martin heads to the front desk.

Now that he’s sitting and so close to being able to rest, he feels the exhaustion creeping back up on him. It comes with shades of pain and loss. He catches the woman at the desk glance over towards him, and realises for the first time, how he must look to anyone observing. His clothes and skin are dirty, and there’s blood on his face and matted into his hair from that impossible crown. He remembers the feeling of it as it had cut into him and he’d seen everything and known everything, all the truths and secrets that people hid from.

He reaches up to touch his forehead, and the dried blood flakes off beneath his fingers. He feels very cold suddenly. He shivers and hunches in on himself, the enormity of it hitting him. He’d nearly destroyed the world. He could have. He’d wanted to. It would have been so easy and every instinct in him had screamed for him to do it, to remake reality to serve him, so that nothing would be hidden again and everyone would exist in that awful exquisite terror forever. 

His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms hard enough that he feels skin split and blood well up. The world spins and he can feel people staring at him, all eyes turning to him, pinning him under their scrutinising gaze. They tear him apart, flay him open and reveal all that he is for everyone to see.

Heat drips from his eyes and down his face and his shoulders shake with the enormity of it. He shouldn’t be here. How is he _here_ and _alive_ when he doesn’t deserve it? When he’s a monster?

“Jon?”

He doesn’t register it at first, and when a hand falls to his shoulder he flinches away.

“Jon? Jon, look at me!”

He drags his head up slowly to look at Martin through blurred vision. He feels scraped raw, like someone has taken wire wool to his being. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

Martin’s expression is cool, but his voice is soft and kind as he wraps an arm around Jon’s shoulders and pulls him to his feet. “It’s okay, Jon. Come on, let’s get you to our room.”

He huddles close and works at dragging the shattered remains of himself together. It’s hard to do when the sobs shake him to his core, leave him shuddering against Martin’s side. A couple of people get into the lift alongside them, and he can feel them watching him. The vicious, angry part of himself wants to turn it back on them, make them tell him their secrets, and feast on their terror.

Martin cradles his head against his collarbone, fingers in his hair, and makes idle small talk until they reach their floor.

The hallway is mercifully empty, and Jon feels Martin slump next to him in relief at being away from people and their prying eyes and desire for connection. They reach their room, and Martin unlocks the door. Jon follows him inside and stands just next to the door, blinking tiredly at the room. The carpet and doors and walls are that creamy beige-brown that hotels favour. The bed is huge and looks soft. The whole room is lovely and completely nondescript. The kind of hotel where you’ll never be remembered once you’re left and no-one take any notice of you.

Right now, that makes it the most comforting place Jon can imagine staying. 

Martin is already bustling around. He drops the backpack onto the floor and and takes his tie off, and then turns to Jon. “Do you want the shower first?”

“Yes. I- yes, that’s a good idea.”

He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror as he undresses. No wonder the woman at reception was staring. He looks terrible, like something from a horror movie. He might actually have looked better while he was in a coma, and he wonders what Martin had said to persuade the hotel staff that he was safe to be allowed inside.

He drags the water as hot as he can out of habit, and then turns it down again when he remembers. It’s comfortably warm when he does get in, enough to leave his skin pink without scalding. He just stands underneath it for a while, watching it sluice away the grime and blood until it runs clear. It’s an easy thing to focus on. There’s nothing to think about with it. No particularly terrible connotations for him with water. Nothing personal at least.

Finally he grabs the fancy hotel shampoo and tries to wash his hair. His fingers catch in it where it’s matted with blood, and he winces when he scratches too hard at a scabbed over wound from the crown and the water flushes red for a second. It’s nice though, the pain and the blood. That’s a horrible thought, isn’t it? To be pleased for his injuries. But they’re not healing in front of his eyes and that means it worked, right? He’s human.

He dries off and pulls on one of the thick hotel dressing gowns that drowns him in fabric, and heads into the bedroom. Martin’s sat on the bed, reading through one of those brochure things that hotels sometimes have. He looks up when Jon arrives, and nods, then heads in for his own shower.

Jon settles himself on the edge of the bed and then just sits there. He feels like a puppet with cut strings. Directionless for the first time since he was eight and discovered true evil in the world. He picks at a stray thread in the dressing gown and listens to the sound of the shower that means that Martin is still there. He isn’t alone. Neither of them are alone.

Martin’s hair, when he emerges from the shower is fluffy and sticks up at odd angles, and the warmth has turned his skin pink. He’s pulled a faded t-shirt on over boxers. Jon feels like he should say something to break the silence. Something funny or lascivious. Maybe something to explain to Martin how much he means to him, how much Jon loves him, and how grateful he is that he’s there. That’s he’s always been there.

“I don’t have any pyjamas,” Jon says helplessly instead, and then laughs. The sound fractures in his throat into another exhausted sob. 

And maybe that’s the right thing to say, because Martin laughs then, soft at first, a little huff that could be dismissed. But louder then, like months of emotion had been frozen and are now breaking up like sea-ice in summer. He laughs hard enough that he has to lean against the wall, and Jon laughs with him, harder than he has in years. They laugh until they’re wrung out and breathless, and have subsided into pathetic little snickers.

“God,” Martin says, and wipes his eyes. “I think I broke a rib laughing.”

“Sorry, I don’t have any to spare. I’m already short,” Jon says, and that sets them off again. 

Finally Martin climbs onto the bed next to him and flops back against the pillows, spreading out like a starfish. Jon sheds the bathrobe, leaving him in just his boxers, and then lies down next to him.

It feels like the softest, most comfortable bed in the world after months on one of the camp beds in the Archives. He gropes for Martin’s hand and laces their fingers together when he finds it. Martin squeezes them in return.

“Hey Martin?” 

Martin gives a soft noise to show he’s still awake.

“This is real, isn’t it?”

Martin is silent for a moment, just long enough that Jon feels a tremble run through him, thoughts teetering at the edge of a precipice. Then Jon feels a brush of lips against his cheek.

“Yeah, Jon. It’s real. I think I’d ache less if it was just a dream.”

“Good point,” Jon agrees. If this was some perfect hallucinatory world his mind had conjured up, it could at least have made him not cry in the lift in front of strangers.

“Hey Jon?” Martin asks softly a few minutes later. 

“Hm?”

“What do we do tomorrow?”

That’s a question, isn’t it? Tomorrow is- he’d never planned to have a tomorrow. It’s a bit terrifying. Tomorrow had always meant another threat, another horror. But now there’s just that long stretch of time with nothing filling it, and nothing to chain them down. Now, there’s Martin in bed next to him, and the way he smells faintly of hotel shampoo and soap and clean skin.

“I think- I think we get to do whatever we want.”

“Mmm, yeah, I think you’re right.”

He lies awake for a few more minutes. Feels Martin’s fingers go slack in his and the room is filled with the gentle sound of his breathing. 

Finally Jon falls asleep, and for the first time in so very long, he doesn’t dream.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [Tumblr](https://zalia.tumblr.com)!


End file.
